


I Know Things Now

by gnawingsuspicion



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail Hobbs Lives, Adopted Abigail Hobbs, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Increasing smuttiness, Inspired by Into the Woods, Multi, Murder Family, Questionable 'parenting', Song Lyrics, Songfic, i can't believe that's a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 08:56:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13431318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnawingsuspicion/pseuds/gnawingsuspicion
Summary: Abigail only had three movies to watch while she was in the institution. One of them was Into The Woods. Now she lives with Hannibal, and one song keeps running through her head.





	I Know Things Now

**Author's Note:**

> If you're not a musicals person, just skip the quotes and get into the weird, uncomfortable smuttiness.

Abigail is lying awake in her bed in Hannibal's house. He's been gone for hours. Outside it's snowing lightly, faintly, just a sliver of moonlight peeking through the clouds. It would feel like a fairytale if not for the gnawing feeling in her gut. He's out there, somewhere. Hunting.  
  
_"Mother said,_  
_'Straight ahead,'_  
_Not to delay_  
_or be misled."_  
  
When she was in the institution, they had one television. Every Friday night they would play movies for the non-violent residents, gathered together to stare through the static of whichever of the three VHS tapes had been selected for them. Abigail never understood why their technology was so dated. DVD players were cheap. Heck, couldn't they spring for Netflix? She supposed they were trying to limit exposure to anything upsetting or perhaps just cut costs, but they could've at least hit up a flea market to widen their selection. Instead, they rotated between _Road to Perdition, Lilo and Stitch,_ and, for no reason she could discern, the 1997 stage production of _Into the Woods_.  
  
_"I should have heeded_  
_Her advice..."_  
  
The staff would usually put on the night's selection and then leave, with one orderly peeking in to make sure nothing went awry. Abigail sat in the back, quiet, a scarf covering the bandage on her neck. At first she hated movie night - it felt so clinical, so very _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ \- but after several weeks she reluctantly began to look forward to a break in the monotony. She thought about how the visits she got from Alana, from Will, From Hannibal - Even Freddie - how they were all a block of time carved out in each of their busy days. To her, they were only thing to look forward to in the yawning stretch between waking and the nightmares that came with sleep. She burned through books and puzzles. She stared out windows. She waited for something, anything to distract her from the memories.  
  
Alana was there to soothe her, to coax information in her kindest, most maternal voice. Freddie just wanted a good headline. If she was honest with herself, Abigail preferred Freddie. At least she wore her intentions on her sleeves. Alana was trying her best to treat her like a grown woman, but still cooed and placated her. It wasn't what she needed. Even recycled movie night couldn't compare with visits from Hannibal and Will.  
  
_"...But he seemed so nice."_  
  
The way they talked to her was singular. She had worked hard not to seem overeager, but the energy they brought to her tiny corner of the world was like a bolt of lightning through a dull, grey sky. They cared for her. They knew her. They had been there when everything had come crashing down, when her father had finally made good on his promise and slit her throat. They had held her. Helped her. They didn't condescend. All three of them shared a darkness the rest of the world couldn't understand.  
  
_"And he showed me things_  
_Many beautiful things,_  
_That I hadn't thought to explore."_  
  
Will wanted them to be a family. She knew that. The way they sat on either side of her, Hannibal's protective arm sometimes around her, Will's eyes darting toward her neck. She had never had a father, not really. A captor, perhaps. Someone she'd been afraid of all her life, who had made her do things that loosened her grip on reality. Her mother tried, tried to protect her, but somewhere deep inside she felt that she knew. She knew, and didn't protect Abigail. Turning a blind eye was easier than walking into the path of a hunting knife.  
  
Yet here they came, these two paternal figures, unbothered by her brokenness. Broken themselves, in more ways than she knew. Still, the love they showed her, the love they showed _each other_ , felt more real than anything she'd grown up with. They touched each other so casually, with such delicate affection. Will, the frazzled, hopeless romantic, taking in strays and squeezing his eyes to block out the pain of feeling _everything_. Hannibal, the calm, eloquent, collected instructor, so eager to tease out the potential in others. So she thought, at the time.  
  
_"They were off my path,_  
_So I never had dared._  
_I had been so careful,_  
_I never had cared."  
  
_ When she was discharged, Hannibal hadn't hesitated to invite her to live with him. Her home was vandalized, photographers waited to catch her in the act of mourning. He prepared a room for her with more care than she could possibly have hoped for. Deep blues and golds, soft cotton sheets, bookshelves overflowing with everything from mystery novels to medieval poetry. A writing desk. A vanity. Clothing she assumed had been painful for him to pick out (comfortable, modest, warm) as well as a few things she felt were optimistic on his behalf (expensive designer dresses, finely-sewn blouses, brocade jackets she was sure he would've worn if he had the figure for it). He had even assembled a drawer of scarves, ranging from whisper-thin silk neckties to thick woolen holiday numbers. The room had a view of the tree-lined street, so close to a bustling city. At night she could hear cars, passers-by, shouts and singing as drunks stumbled home.  
  
To anyone else it would've meant sleepless nights, but to Abigail it was comfort. At the institution she heard nothing but orderlies and janitors, punctuated by occasional screams from other trauma victims. She thought of how Will had offered to let her stay with him, but neither could argue that Hannibal's home provided more... And it wasn't in the middle of nowhere. Abigail hated the thought of the silence of the woods at night, even with seven or eight dogs to drive the nightmares away. So she went with Hannibal and listened to the buses trundle through the snow.  
  
Still, it wasn't long before her dreams became restless again. She saw her father, she felt herself sinking into an inky black lake. In her visions there waited a wolf, silent at the edge of the forest that had surrounded her old house. It reminded her of the play, of how Sondheim had transformed the big bad wolf from simply a devourer of lost children to something... else. A metaphor. The longer she spent in Hannibal's house, the more often she found herself humming that same song.  
  
_"And he made me feel excited-_  
_Well, excited and scared."_  
  
The third time Abigail woke up screaming, Hannibal was at her bedside. He'd brought her tea. She looked around at the old analog clock on the dresser; it was 2:30am. He was still fully dressed, though his collar was askew and he smelled of something... What was it? Something astringent, like cleaner. She was still half in a dream. Had he just come home? He told her to drink, and as she did, he touched her hair. His fingers smelled coppery. She looked into his eyes, those deep, lightless black pools. She had never looked so closely.  
  
"Hannibal, where were you?"  
  
"Hush, Abigail. You had a nightmare."  
  
"Were you... you smell like blood."  
  
Hannibal started to move his hand away, but stopped. He ran it through her hair, touching her ear delicately. She sipped at her tea. Her eyes were growing heavier.  
  
"Did you... Did you hurt someone?"  
  
He paused, regarding her. She was too tired to be as afraid or alert as she might normally have been. She knew this smell. Before she took another sip, Hannibal pulled away her teacup and set it down on the nightstand.  
  
"There are things we should discuss, if you are to continue living here."  
  
Even in her daze, Abigail was flipping through suspicious moments. The sound of his boots in the entryway waking her before dawn, yet Hannibal not rising to make breakfast until well into the morning. The bolted basement door. She tried to ignore it, to push it to the back of her mind, but though the patterns were different, she recognized some of her father's behaviors. Something was happening in Hannibal's house, but she wanted so desperately not to know. If she knew, how could she stay?  
  
"I guess... Yeah. Yes."  
  
"I have made no judgment on your past, Abigail. In fact, I find myself particularly sympathetic to your actions."  
  
She blinked slowly. "Are you... are you like him?"  
  
"There are two answers to that question."  
  
Abigail gulped, struggling with an unusually strong urge to give in to sleep. Was there something in the tea?  
  
"I am not like your father in that I do not intend to harm you. Nor do I wish to make you do anything against your will."  
  
"But?"  
  
"But... your father and I share certain... inclinations."  
  
Abigail sat up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. She shook her head.  
  
"I apologize. I added some sedative to your tea. I hoped it would help you sleep without such troubling dreams."  
  
"You do hurt people."  
  
"Can I trust you, Abigail?"  
  
She looked around the room, the deep hues lit by the moonlit snow outside. Her books and clothes, her beautiful castle.  
  
"I... I think so."  
  
"There are things about me you may struggle to reconcile with, but I suspect that in some ways, you and I are alike as well."  
  
"But..." She paused, her eyes drooping. "You won't hurt me?"  
  
"Never. In fact, you are safer here than you would be most anywhere else."  
  
"I want..."  
  
The tea, the exhaustion, the overwhelming information swirled together to pull her down. Her words were tied in knots, raw emotion fighting against a facade she had spent years perfecting.  
  
"I want you to teach me."  
  
Before she fell, she saw something she hadn't expected. She saw Hannibal smile.  
  
_"When he said, "Come in!"_  
_With that sickening grin,_  
_How could I know what was in store?"  
  
_ Hannibal did not initially bring up the incident. Abigail wasn't sure at first if she'd dreamed it, and her PTSD was acting up worse than usual. Hannibal had given her everything she needed, even taking her out for dinner - an unusual act for a man so dedicated to home cooking. He had surprised her by bringing Will, and Abigail had nearly squealed with delight when the waiter mistook them for a family. She watched the two men exchange a look, deciding whether or not to correct him, then Hannibal simply smiled and asked for a wine list. Will had blushed. It was the most fun she'd had since before she'd nearly been killed.  
  
After that, Will came over more regularly. He had kept his distance, he said, to give her time to recover. She assured him it was better to have him around, and Hannibal agreed. They tried to teach Will to play chess. He took them on a hike, which Hannibal quietly detested. One night, at Abigail's behest, when she was laden with cramps and a cold and in no mood to attend the opera Hannibal had proposed, they all three stayed in and watched a movie. Abigail cuddled into the middle of them and Hannibal was generous with his medicinal cocktails. She later mused on how none of them had opposed an evening of horror movies. Nobody flinched at the gore. In fact, Hannibal's arm around the back of the chair, behind Abigail, had landed gingerly on Will's shoulder. Neither of them had done anything to move it. In fact, Abigail nestled closer to Hannibal as the movies progressed and the hot toddies worked their magic. She propped her legs across Will's knees. Her ankle had daringly grazed across his lap and she heard, her eyes closed, as he tried to disguise a sharp intake of breath. She fell asleep, grinning, as the teenage sex fiends were carved into mulch.  
  
_"Once his teeth were bared,_  
_Though, I really got scared-_  
_Well, excited and scared..."_  
  
She woke in her room once again to the sounds of her own voice, calling for help. As soon as she realized, she tried to quiet herself, but she heard footsteps rushing down the hall. One set, and then two.  
  
Hannibal pushed open her door, his shirt unbuttoned halfway. Will was in silk pajama pants - Hannibal's silk pajama pants - and shirtless. She blinked, unsure if she was still dreaming. What was happening? She held her head as the men took either side of the bed, each placing an arm on her shoulder.  
  
"Abigail, are you alright?"  
  
"We heard you screaming."  
  
Will's face was lined with worry, a stark contrast to Hannibal's nearly-emotionless face. She was used to trying to decipher her guardian, and there was something terribly calming about Will's open concern. Without realizing it, Abigail had one hand at her throat, covering her scar.  
  
"What... why are you here?"  
  
"Will and I may have had a few too many drinks with the film. I offered to let him stay-"  
  
"We're sleeping together, Abigail."  
  
She was suddenly wide awake. Hannibal's mask had flickered, stunned at Will's brusque honesty.  
  
"You are?"  
  
"Abigail-"  
  
"Yes. We have been. We are. There's no point lying to you."  
  
"Will-"  
  
"What? Everyone has lied to her, Hannibal. Even you. Especially you. She deserves better than that."  
  
Hannibal cleared his throat. They had not yet discussed his _shared inclinations_ with her father. She knew he liked to do all things on his own time, at his own pace, and Will was smashing through those barriers. Despite herself, she was grateful. It was the same attitude she'd liked in Freddie. Once your father's cut open your jugular vein, you lose a certain interest in white lies and polite small talk.  
  
"For how long?"  
  
Will waited, letting Hannibal take the wheel. "For a short while."  
  
"Has Hannibal told you what he keeps in the cellar?"  
  
"Will, it's the middle of the night. Perhaps we should-"  
  
"He eats people, Abigail."  
  
Silence.  
  
"He _what?"  
  
_ Hannibal sighed uncomfortably. "There is more to it than that."  
  
She sat up straight, shrugging both their hands off her shoulders.  
  
"You... eat people?"  
  
"If you've been living with him for this long, I expect you have, too. Tell me, Hannibal, what was in the pot roast we had earlier?"  
  
Abigail stared. Hannibal coughed. "Investment banker."  
  
_"But he drew me close_  
_And he swallowed me down,_  
_Down a dark slimy path_  
_Where lie secrets that I never want to know..."_  
  
When Abigail was done throwing up, she returned to the bedroom. She'd wrapped herself in a downy blue robe, her hair tied back. Her gums were raw from over-brushing. Will and Hannibal were waiting on her bed, a large glass of water and a tray of saltines waiting. Will had put on a shirt. Hannibal looked thoroughly unimpressed.  
  
"I told you she was not ready."  
  
"And I told you I don't care."  
  
"You had too much to drink."  
  
"You're a cannibal."  
  
Abigail sat on the edge of the bed, staring down the two of them. Her throat was raw and parched. Hannibal handed her the water and she regarded it with apprehension. She sniffed it.  
  
"It's just water, Abigail."  
  
"Not tears? Or... filtered... organs? Or something?"  
  
"That would be absurd. Your body could not process any meat at the moment."  
  
Will laughed. It was a strange, pained, barking laugh. Abigail found solid ground in having an ally against this new insanity. The information was so upsetting and bizarre she felt half-numb, as if she were still waiting to wake up. She drank the water in slow, pained gulps. When she was done, she nibbled mournfully at a saltine.  
  
"I don't understand. Or, maybe I do. I think. I mean, I knew there was... something. Just not... this."  
  
The two men sat in silence for a moment, waiting for her to continue, both afraid to scare her away. For all his blunt protestations, Will seemed sensitive now about Hannibal's comment on his drinking. Abigail had given so much trust to come back to the bed rather than run screaming out the front door. Hannibal never got nervous, but in this moment, he was close.  
  
"I don't... I might need some time." Suddenly, Will occurred to her. "You knew? About all this?"  
  
Will nodded. "Not always. Recently. Hannibal and I have... an interesting past."  
  
If Abigail hadn't known better, she would have thought he laughed. Chortled, maybe.  
  
"I have... hurt people too, Abigail."  
  
They kept saying her name. The orderlies had done that, too. So had Alana. She assumed it was some practiced method of calming, perhaps establishing common ground. She normally hated it. In this moment, it was almost like an anchor to reality. She was still Abigail. She was still real, even if everything else was wrong and uneven.  
  
_"And when everything familiar seemed to disappear forever,_  
_At the end of the path was granny once again_  
_So we lay in the dark, til you came and set us free..."_  
  
"Who did you hurt?"  
  
Will looked at his hands, curled in his lap. Hannibal's gaze followed them. "I... Wanted to. I always did, I think. I found something inside me and he... brought it out. I wanted to feel what that felt like."  
  
Abigail looked to Hannibal, who regarded Will with such fond affection she couldn't help but smile a little. What a strange, broken, impossible trio they were in this moment. In all moments.  
  
"What did it feel like?"  
  
Will turned to Hannibal, his eyes sparkling. All the light she couldn't find in his eyes, Will must have stolen.  
  
"Beautiful."  
  
Hannibal was silent, watching his partner, his ward, the dappled light from the street casting soft shadows across the dark room.  
  
"I have never shown myself to anyone," He said, choosing his words carefully. "I hope you will understand."  
  
Abigail laughed, breaking the tense silence hovering over the three of them. "I don't!"  
  
They looked to her, shocked.  
  
"Or rather, I... I do, I guess. It's not like I haven't lived with this all my life. I just thought... I don't know. What I did with my dad, that wasn't me. I had to. To survive."  
  
Will nodded emphatically, while Hannibal simply inclined his head.  
  
"But..."  
  
Those black eyes turned up to her.  
  
"...I liked it. Well. Parts of it. I understand, is I think what I'm saying. Not the... eating. That... that will take some getting used to."  
  
Will laughed, while Hannibal looked genuinely surprised.  
  
"Of course, I won't force you. We can have... other menu options."  
  
"Oh so you'll do it for her, but not me!" Will nudged him playfully. Abigail's mind was reeling at the absurdity of it all. There would always be blood in her world.  
  
But maybe... this would be different. It felt different.  
  
"I can't... you won't hurt me?"  
  
At this, Hannibal took hold of her small, strong hands. He held them as if they were precious stones.  
  
"I will never hurt you, Abigail. I promised you that. And I always keep my promises."  
  
Despite everything, she believed him.  
  
_"And you brought us to the light..."  
  
_ Abigail would never know normal. Normal was for other people who hadn't cut girls open to keep themselves alive. Still, there were trips to the mall, camping, movie nights, cooking with her new family... If a family was what it was. It was something new.  
  
Will became a regular fixture at the house. She lived for the evenings they would all simply sprawl across couches by the fire, reading. Hannibal would drag them to the symphony and protect her from inquiring strangers who recognized her from the tragedy. After she grew accustomed to her new awareness, Will would occasionally take Abigail out to Wolftrap. They would fish, tie lures, make pancakes, go ice fishing. It was still hard to sleep with all the silence, but the eight dogs really did make a difference. Every now and then, she and Will would fall asleep together on the couch. His cheap aftershave didn't bother her. It was... comforting.  
  
For a long time, she stayed far from Hannibal's culinary activities. She kept a practically vegetarian diet. He respected her distaste, even adhering to a people-free meal plan for awhile to make her more comfortable. Eventually, though, his desires returned. He told her what he intended to do, and how he would do it. Her fear turned to curiosity. When he described his plan, she felt a yearning in her gut, the same one she'd felt when Will had described his first kill. Was it beautiful? Maybe some day, she would know.  
  
_"And we're back at the start."  
  
_ Abigail hears her bedroom door creak open.  
  
"Hannibal?"  
  
"It's me," Will whispers, closing it behind him.  
  
"Couldn't sleep?"  
  
"Neither could he."  
  
He sits down on the edge of her bed. She shifts over to give him room. The snow is picking up.  
  
"I can't believe he went out in this."  
  
"I know. He must really be..."  
  
"Hungry."  
  
Abigail laughs a strange, broken laugh. She recognizes it as similar to Will's. What have they become?  
  
"Did he say when he'd be back?"  
  
"No. I fell asleep after we..."  
  
He trails off, but she knows. She could hear it. _Distinctly._  
  
"I hope he's alright."  
  
"I don't think it's him we have to worry about." Will stares out the window. He's reassuring both of them, though he knows Hannibal will be fine. The danger doesn't have to worry about danger.  
  
_"And I know things now,_  
_Many valuable things,_  
_That I hadn't known before:_  
_Do not put your faith_  
_In a cape and a hood,_  
_They will not protect you_  
_The way that they should..."  
  
_ "Scooch over."  
  
Abigail stifles a flicker of a smile as she relinquishes the center of the bed. Will is shirtless again, a habit he only seems to employ when he stays here. He lifts up the thick down comforter, a crushed blue velvet monstrosity that is the warmest place in the house.  
  
"Room for one more? It's freezing."  
  
The corner of her mouth twitches again. She's in flannel pajamas and socks even under the covers. She runs so much colder since her attack. Will, on the other hand, produces heat like a furnace. Whenever they fall asleep on the couch, she sleeps soundly, without dreams.  
  
"Get in here."  
  
_"And take extra care with strangers,_  
_Even flowers have their dangers._  
_And though scary is exciting_ _..."  
  
_ Will is careful to keep to his side of the bed. Abigail is wide awake, aware of every whisper of wind, every creak in the house. She can smell him, his sweat and his worry and his frantic fear. Hannibal has noted that she shares a degree of his olfactory advantage, and ever since she finds herself working to improve and hone it. Few things feel as good as impressing him. Is it because she's afraid? Does earning his favor earn her survival? She isn't sure. She's so used to surviving.  
  
 _"...Nice is different than good."_  
  
Yet here, in this bed, Will is warm and inviting. She doesn't feel afraid. His dark hair falls in curls on the pillow next to hers. He's facing away, not willing to toe across the unspoken line. His breathing is slowing. She reaches out a tentative hand to twist a single rogue strand of hair. His presence is so calming, so protective. Hannibal is a shield against all the dark corners of the world, but a part of her knows Will is a shield against Hannibal. She allows her fingertips a graze across the freckles of his shoulder and notices... Teeth marks.  
  
Her breath catches. Her mind reels. The implications are dizzying. The marks are pink, faint, but unmistakable. There's a tiny scratch where a sharp canine might have broken the skin. That Will would let him... What must that feel like? What would it feel like for Hannibal to do that to her? To hold her in his jaws, knowing what he is? What he could do, but doesn't? To feel the restraint behind his bite, hurting her just a little, just enough... She closes her eyes and tries to be Will, tries to empathize enough to feel that moment. She moves her body closer to his. Imagines what it must be like to have him inside, to be filled, to feel his teeth, his arms, the controlled ferocity threatening to tear her apart. Her hand presses against the mark. The smallest, most delicate bead of red manifests in response. A moan escapes her lips.  
  
"Abigail?"  
  
Will half-turns over. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his expression dazed. Instinctively, she recoils, afraid of his response. There is no recourse. He mumbles.  
  
"Are you poking me?"  
  
She laughs, her nose crinkling at the absurdity.  
  
"No, I was just..."  
  
The consideration takes eons, or so it feels. Should she? It's like moving through sand, swimming upstream, every last remaining tangle of common sense clawing at her to stop, run, get out of this mess.  
  
But she doesn't. She reaches out and touches the bite. Will winces, just a little, waking up when he realizes what she's found.  
  
"Abigail..."  
  
Her name again, always her name. Always her in their mouths.  
  
She pulls her hand back. There is a perfect red circle on the tip of her index finger. Slowly, deliberately, she turns it to show Will. He opens his mouth to let excuses tumble out, but she stops him. Her eyes burn into his. She can feel her legs shaking with nerves. She puts the finger between her lips and licks the blood off it. Will's mouth hangs open, searching her for an explanation, though somewhere below his stomach he knows. He can feel her.  
  
"Will."  
  
There is blood on her tongue.  
  
_"Now I know:_  
_Don't be scared._  
_Granny is right,_  
_Just be prepared."  
  
_ When Hannibal returns, dawn is breaking and the storm has cleared. A man lies in pieces in the walk-in freezer, arranged delicately for later, when fresher eyes can decide what to make of him. He is tired and cold down to his bones, an unusual after-effect. He is normally invigorated, his muscles tensed and ready to work out his adrenaline on Will. Not this morning. He is ready for sleep.  
  
As he climbs the stairs, he hears a sound. A whisper... no, a whimper. He pauses on the penultimate stair, ears perked up. He readies himself for an attack, his body preparing to do its work. Then... something else. He can smell... Will. His eyes widen. His pose softens. He can smell Abigail.  
  
When he pushes open the door to her bedroom, he does it with such effortless silence that the scene is undisturbed. The blue comforter is cascading into the floor. Abigail sits half-upright against the plush blue and gold pillows, her eyes closed in ecstasy. Her hands are twisting in the sheets - one moves to grip the wooden bedframe and he can hear, even from a distance, her nails digging sharp half-moons into it. Her skin glows in the pale dawn streaking in through the window. He has never seen her... The scar on her throat, still an angry red even months later, stands out in protest as she gasps. Between her legs, on his knees, Will is giving her the world. His hands cup underneath her thighs. Hannibal can hear his tongue working, eking out feeble protestations between waves of pleasure.

He stands there, watching, waiting. Will moves like a man possessed, hungry for every drop of her. She writhes, her brow knits. This is their first time, and he knows it. Will would never rush to penetrate her, to overwhelm her for his own pleasure. He is so giving. Hannibal feels the post-kill adrenaline returning, clawing its way up through the exhaustion. Watching them together, watching him work, is exquisite.  
  
_"Isn't it nice to know a lot?"  
  
_ He waits until he sees the stars aligning in her. Her breath is a fixed, rapid chorus. Her heartbeat flutters. Will's back moves, his muscles tensing as he drives her relentlessly, fervently towards climax. Hannibal inches towards the doorway.  
  
When Abigail comes, she cries out, overwhelmed by a feeling she has never found on her own. Her hand grips the bedframe so hard her knuckles turn white. Will's fingers dig into the back of her thighs, pulling her toward him, keeping her in it. His tongue and his teeth and his fingers were born for this. To give her this. She opens her eyes to look at him.  
  
Hannibal is waiting, staring at her. Her mouth falls open. For a split second she thinks to warn Will, but then he smiles that wicked, devil smile at her, and presses a finger to his lips. Reaching one hand to the top button of his shirt, he enters her bedroom.  
  
_"...And a little bit not."_  



End file.
